


Conquered

by kitsunesongs



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Clan Head!Tobirama, Concubinage, Hashirama is a tree, Hints of future Dub/Non-Con, Inventor!Tobirama, M/M, MadaTobiExchange2020, Madara's Rival!Tobirama, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Slavery, So yay?, The Senju Lose, The Uchiha Win, The Warring Clan's Era, Uchiha Clan's Rival Obsessions, War Prize, about Madara conquering the senju and taking tobirama as a war prize, and then fucking him senseless, but instead it turned into 11K of worldbuilding and backstory and character interactions, he is a very happy tree, this was supposed to be a simple porny oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:33:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22827214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitsunesongs/pseuds/kitsunesongs
Summary: When Senju Butsuma's first child dies young, his second grows up very differently - and so does Uchiha Madara.Mada Tobi Gift Exchange 2020 for fajeczki.
Relationships: Senju Butsuma & Senju Tobirama, Senju Itama & Senju Tobirama, Senju Kawarama & Senju Tobirama, Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara
Comments: 42
Kudos: 857





	Conquered

Tobirama only had the vaguest memories of his elder brother. He’d died – taken by the Mokuton, his mother had whispered, grief heavy in her eyes and chakra as she cradled him close – when Tobirama was only a few years old, and Kawarama a newborn still suckling at his mother’s breast. Even a genius like Tobirama would be hard pressed to remember a time that far in the past, and he had never told anyone, certain he would be scoffed at and told he was making things up, imagining memories that weren’t there – but he was sure. The faint memories he had, of warm hands holding him or wrapped around his own small ones as he toddled forward determinedly, the laughter and cheerful, bright voice crying out ‘good job Tobira! Come on, you can do it, come to Anija!’ The flash of a scent like the forest and a bright, vivid chakra, warm with love and life. The image of brown eyes shining, crinkled happily as laughter rang out. Those were his secrets. No one else could have them.

Tobirama only had the vaguest memories of his elder brother, but that didn’t stop him mourning him.

(His mother, always so sad, had smiled at him once, with tears in her eyes, on what would have been Hashirama’s birthday. “You loved him so much, Tobirama, and he loved you back! He would carry you in a baby sling and I hardly ever got you back, except for feeding time! He loved you – and you loved him.”

“Your first word,” she had whispered, eyes bright and smile warm, dying, as he held her hands and kept his pleads for her to hold on behind his tongue, not wanting to hurt her when she was so happy as she bled out in the birthing bed, the newly named Itama crying in his crib, “was ‘Anija’.”

She’d died smiling, and Tobirama had gone and picked up Itama and soothed the baby’s cries.)

The clan mourned him too. Kawarama, the new heir, (Tobirama’s younger brother, but there was no way Tobirama would become clan heir when there was a _normal_ looking Senju right there, regardless of age) was strong and fast and smart and powerful, with the large reserves of the Senju and an earth affinity and a fondness for explosions and traps. He was loyal, and dutiful, and loved his clan and hated the Uchiha (and why, Tobirama wondered but didn’t say, already looked at suspiciously for his coloring and the link of his red eyes to their ancestral enemies bloodline limit, were those spoken of in the same breath, as if they were the same thing? As if you couldn’t have one without the other?). He was a good, worthy heir, and would be a good, steady clan head.

But he wasn’t Hashirama, who had inherited their bloodline limit, who had had twice the amounts of chakra as an adult Senju before he was five years old, who had been bright and happy and charismatic and cheerful and promised to lead them to a new age of glory, of victory over their hated enemies.

Kawarama was above average, in the ranks of the Senju, and any other time would have been honored as such. But above average pales next to genius, and Kawarama was always second place.

And he knew it.

(Tobirama did the best he could, reassuring Kawarama of his love and loyalty, helping him come up with new jutsu, working with him to perfect their father’s training, whispering to him every night as he went to bed that he loved him, repeating it every time he went on a mission, I love you, I love you, I love you, like it was a mantra.

It wasn’t enough, but he tried.)

Kawarama resented their older brother, the brother he had never known, and any attempt by Tobirama to tell him of him, of what he had been like, only cause him to pout and get angry – and jealous. Tobirama was the only older brother Kawarama had ever known, and the only mother figure he remembered, and while he had taken to Itama with gusto, loving his little brother and taking joy in being an older brother (“I want to be for Itama what you are for me, Tobirama-Anija!” he’d beamed once, cross shaped mark on his cheek newly red and still healing after he’d been hurt protecting Itama. “I’ll be the best big brother ever – you’ll see! And the best clan head – we’ll defeat the Uchiha and then you won’t ever have to worry about anything ever again!”), he resented anyone else who got Tobirama’s attention, whether it was their father, their cousin Touka, or the memory of Hashirama, who Tobirama still lit incense for every day and left flowers by his grace – and the small sapling that had grown from his Anija’s flesh and blood as the forest took him over was carefully tended, fed and watered and trimmed, as Tobirama learned everything he could about caring for all sorts of plants, and applied it to his brother’s legacy (sometimes, when he was alone with the tree, the wind would whisper through it’s branches and ruffle his hair like a hand, or whisper in his ears like a voice, and Tobirama would close his eyes and pretend it was his Anija’s spirit.) Kawarama didn’t like when Tobirama lit incense for their mother or Hashirama, and didn’t like when Itama followed suit, and didn’t like when Tobirama spent time with the tree or caring for their graves instead of him or Itama, but not even his displeasure could stop Tobirama, and so things continued in that vein for a while, and Tobirama enjoyed his routine life, of studying, training, caring for his brothers, and missions. Soon enough, though, that routine was shaken up.

The year Tobirama was nine, turning ten, three important, life changing things happened to him, though he wouldn’t realize the importance of one of them until later.

The first thing that happened was that he met a boy by the river.

Tobirama spent a lot of time outside the compound, especially when one or both of his brother’s wasn’t there to spend time with. Sometimes, he’d spar or talk or train with Touka, his cousin and one of the few in the clan who didn’t look at him distrustfully for his appearance and his quiet nature, but with her also out on a mission he’d abandoned the confines of the compound and headed to the forest that surrounded it.

Leaving the compound at the hard stares – and occasional flat out glare – from his clanmates was always a relief. Tobirama let out a sigh and relaxed as the cool, green dimness of the forest fell over him, and took a moment to simply bask in the peace and calm of being on his own, in the place he felt most comfortable, before heading for his favorite place in the forest – the river.

Even before Tobirama had been given the expensive paper by his father that they used to determine their chakra natures, he’d known he would be a water type, simply because of how the water called to him. He was never happier then when he was surrounded by it, whether that was lying at the bottom of his bath or the onsen, standing in the rain as the thunder and lightning of the storm flashed overhead, or spending time by the Nakano river that marked the boundary between Uchiha and Senju lands to the west of their compound.

He hadn’t been able to get any time to himself for a while, Father having upped his training as he realized the advantage Tobirama’s sensing abilities gave him in feeling and manipulating his own chakra, and how good his chakra control actually was, with Tobirama already able to form water natured chakra, though the only technique he could do with it so far was simple pulling, not even a real jutsu. Father had almost smiled when he’d seen that Tobirama was so quick to pick up the chakra control techniques he had shown him, and even improve on them and make his own, and murmured a small, rough ‘I’m proud of you’ quietly in Tobirama’s ear as he picked his exhausted body up of the ground and carried him back into the house after a long day of training.

That small praise had made Tobirama feel like he was floating, and even now, just thinking of it, he couldn’t help but smile – a smile that quickly fell from his face as he sensed another human presence by his river.

Tobirama crossed his arms and glared in the direction of the small, bright presence and it’s flickering chakra signature, warm like fire he could sense. That sort of signature, with its fire style etched into it’s heart, was an Uchiha, definitely – but despite the _size_ of the signature, the sheer raw power it radiated (even from here, it was almost enough to give Tobirama a headache), something about it seemed…young.

So, even though he knew he shouldn’t, Tobirama snuck closer to the presence, using all his stealth. Hiding in the trees, he peered down and saw – a boy. Only a few years older than Tobirama, with short hair in a messy, choppy cut and a dark indigo kimono top tied over loose pants and sandals. He was throwing stones into the river.

Tobirama cocked his head to the side and crept closer, wanting a better look. The boy had skin almost as pale as Tobirama’s, and if his chakra hadn’t given off that he was a shinobi, the way he threw the rocks would have, with the distinct arm and hand motion of shuriken throwing.

Why was this strange Uchiha boy throwing rocks into the river?

This was the first time he’d ever seen an Uchiha up close. Though he was skilled enough to take missions, it was mostly milk runs, courier and the occasional escort through their lands, simple missions that the children of the clan could do and that cleared up the older, stronger warriors for the better paying – and as such more dangerous – missions. As he was, if he went to the battlefield, the front line where Senju warred with Uchiha over territory, he’d just be fodder for the Uchiha’s child killing squads. Same if he went on a higher ranked, more important mission – he didn’t even have any elemental jutsu to his name, and while he was good with his sword he wasn’t good enough to just use it, like his third cousin Hamiko, or Atsushi-san, or even his father (though of course father, as the clan head, had many more skills – the Senju each focused on a few skills and took them to great heights, as opposed to the Uchiha who focused on their sharingan and fire and wire and shuriken techniques, but the clan head must be the strongest, and so he must be able to beat the others in their own specialty – or in a specialty that beat theirs. That was why all clan heads needed to be able to use Jutsu of all elemental natures – not just to prove their strength, but also because the Uchiha, with their sharingan, could copy and use Jutsu of all natures. Some Senju were generalists, and some specialist’s – and sending the wrong specialist could result in their death and the failure of the mission, and so the absence of money. It happened more often then it should, and Tobirama had ideas about how to fix it – but that required his clan listening to him, and allowing him to make changes to how they did things, and that would probably never happen, so he put it out of his mind.)

As such, though, he’d never seen his families ancestral enemies, though he’d sensed them nearly all his life, so Tobirama paused as he took in the boy’s appearance.

He didn’t look like a monster. He just looked like a boy.

An irritated, frustrated boy, judging by the way he was scowling at the river. Why was he throwing rocks into the river anyway? What had the river ever done to him?

Tobirama crept closer, crossing trees until he was above and just behind the boy, and could hear what he was saying to himself.

“Next time,” the boy said, determination in his voice and face, “it will reach the other side!”

He threw it with all his might – and it bounced even less then the last time before falling into the river’s clear blue waters with a small ‘plop!’

Tobirama giggled, clapping a hand to his mouth as the boy whirled, eyes searching for him – and they were black, not red like Tobirama’s, or the sharingan.

“Who’s there?” the boy called out, eyes searching blindly as Tobirama hunkered down and hid his presence even more.

The boy frowned at the empty forest, then turned and picked up another rock – only for a second rock to go right by him, skipping merrily over the waters of the lake until it clattered amongst its fellows on the other side. The boy gaped at it for a moment, before spinning around again to face the forest - and went over with a yowl and pinwheeled arms as Tobirama’s second rock hit him right in the head.

This time, Tobirama didn’t bother to hide his laughter, bending over and clutching his middle as he guffawed at the ridiculous picture the boy made.

“Why you – !” the boy shouted, rising to his feet and heading unerringly for where Tobirama was, following the sound of his laugh, but Tobirama made a bunshin and sprang off into the trees, still giggling. He laughed even harder when he was able to get the boy to run headfirst into the tree through the bunshin.

“Are you sure you’re an Uchiha?” He couldn’t help calling out tauntingly as the boy rubbed his now even redder forehead while muttering things under his breath that Tobirama was pretty sure were curses.

The boy span on his branch and looked around again. “How do you – I mean, what makes you think I’m an Uchiha?” he was tense now, chakra pulling in and lashing with readiness, and Tobirama felt – a bit upset, that he wasn’t so carefree now.

So he stepped out from behind one of the trees, balancing on the large branch that easily held his weight, and waved cheekily at the boy. “How do I know? As if your chakra didn’t scream it, you’re from their territory – and you look like one, obviously.” Tobirama rolled his eyes.

The boy bristled, still eyeing him warily. “Is my being an Uchiha why you attacked me?”

“Attacked you?” Tobirama scoffed. “All I did was throw a rock at your head!” Tobirama smirked challengingly at the boy. “Although, I’ve never heard of an Uchiha being fooled by a simple bunshin before –”

“That’s just because I don’t have my sharingan yet!” the boy, flushing red, blustered.

“And does the sharingan teach you how to properly skip stones too?” Tobirama taunted. “Cause I have to tell you – you _suck._ ”

The boy made a noise like an angry teakettle, and launched himself at Tobirama, who darted out of the way with another laugh, and then sprang to a different tree, blood pumping as he enjoyed the chase.

The boy – his chakra was relaxed again, radiating out from him, and while he was putting all his effort into catching Tobirama – he wasn’t radiating killing intent, or even battle readiness anymore.

Tobirama smiled, and laughed, and lead the boy on a merry chase, not quite sure why that made him so happy.

* * *

The second important thing happened the same day.

He’d come home laughing, still remembering the look on the boy’s face as he’d slipped away with one last taunting wave, and opened the door to find that Kawarama had – Kawarama had been –

He’d opened the door and looked across at his father’s face, the lines carved even deeper and grief in his eyes, as the man laid a heavy hand on his shoulder in an attempt at comfort (and oh, Tobirama loved his father, despite everything, and showed it as best he could, with obedience and effort and small attempts to make his life easier – his favorite cup of tea placed by his side when he was working, a massage when his shoulders grew stiff from carrying the weight of all the lives of the Senju clan – and knew that his father loved him too. That the harsh training and orders and desperate attempts to make his sons able to survive the living hell that was their world was the only way he could show his love. Tobirama loved his father, yes – he also pitied him.) and known what he would hear.

Tobirama stopped laughing.

The second important thing broke his heart.

The next few months were a change from the pattern he’d known his whole life.

Itama became the new heir. Sweet Itama, who had only known Tobirama as parent instead of Mother (Father was never a parent. He was a general, a clan head, a trainer, but not a parent.) who was fonder of healing then fighting (who had been cornered by five adult Uchiha, five adults against a _child_ and Tobirama and sensed it and ran, ran as fast as he could but it wasn’t _enough – )_ , was sweet and scared and so, so young.

They stood at the graveyard as men sent shovelfuls of dirt down onto Kawarama’s too small coffin, and Tobirama, face blank, wrapped his arm around Itama’s shaking shoulders.

He couldn’t say, ‘it will be alright’, because he couldn’t know that it would be.

He couldn’t say ‘he’s in a better place now’ because he wasn’t sure if it was true, and if it _was_ true that opened up questions inside his head that he didn’t want to answer (like, would it not be better, then, if they all died? If he killed them?)

He couldn’t say ‘I won’t let what happened to Kawarama happen to you’ because he wasn’t the type to make promises he couldn’t keep, and he knew that in this world nothing was certain, and either of them could die tomorrow.

So instead, he just whispered, “this, too, shall pass, Itama,” and let his little brother cling to him and cry his tears freely, sending a level glare at anyone who looked like they wanted to protest, or tell Itama that his tears were weakness, and to stifle them.

After the funeral, he sat with Itama on the large flat stump of one of the forest’s bigger trees that the clan had cut down for building materials, after a ritual and ceremony where they thanked the tree for its sacrifice, offering what silent comfort he could. It felt fitting, he mused. The tree, after all, hadn’t sacrificed itself, despite the ritual. It had been sacrificed, and all the thanks and worship and blessing in the world couldn’t bring it back.

Just like Kawarama.

“Adults are stupid,” Tobirama said, crossing his arms. “They keep sending kids like Kawa and you and me out to fight when we’re not ready, and then we die, and so our numbers go down. They should keep us safe until we’re trained enough that we can survive, instead of throwing us into the battlefield to die. Children are the future, they’re the one resource we can’t afford to squander, but the adults are so concerned with the _now_ that they don’t care!” He scowled, hunching in on himself, letting his frustration out – here, with no one but his brother to hear. Itama, after all, would never report him for saying such things, and so was safe to complain to. “It’s stupid. _They’re_ stupid. This stupid war – it’s just based on pride and anger and loss. We kill Uchiha because they’ve killed Senju and they kill Senju because we kill Uchiha. It goes around and around. It won’t stop until people refuse to get revenge for the loss of a loved one, refuse to let their emotions get the better of them – they need to sit down with one another and reach a truce.”

Itama jerked at Tobirama’s side, twisting to look at him with a still tear-stained face and reddened brown eyes. Tobirama’s eyes lingered on the shock of white hair on Itama’s head, that he’d dyed himself in a fit of petulance at hearing someone saying something scornful about Tobirama, and softened, arms uncrossing as he reached out to wipe Itama’s face.

“But if we make peace, all the people who have died will turn in their graves!” Itama exclaimed, making Tobirama hesitate a moment, hand still outstretched before continuing forward, rubbing his thumb along the tear tracks that ran down Itama’s cheeks.

“They won’t,” Tobirama said quietly, heart heavy. “They won’t do anything, because they’re dead. Maybe in the pure lands they _are_ watching us and rejoice when their loved ones return to them with their killers’ blood on their hands – but it doesn’t matter. This life is for the living, not the dead. They don’t get a say. I miss Kawarama,” Tobirama’s voice broke, and he closed his eyes, drawing in a ragged breath, before opening them and continuing, voice slightly hoarse. “I miss him more than I can say – it still doesn’t feel completely real. I keep expecting him to come around the corner, whining because we left him behind. But, Itama,” he leaned forward and took Itama’s face in both his hands, meeting those brown eyes with his own bright red ones. “If you died avenging him, it wouldn’t make me happy. It wouldn’t make the hurt any less. It would just make it worse, because I would have lost _two_ little brothers. So please – please, promise me you won’t do anything rash. You won’t seek revenge. You’ll stay close to me on missions and won’t go after any Uchiha or Hagoromo on your own. _Promise_ me, Itama!”

“I promise, Tobirama-Anija,” Itama swore.

Two months later, the third thing happened. Two months later, Itama broke his promise.

(Tobirama felt it, rushing for the panicked, scared, flaring signature of his youngest brother, his last brother, pushing himself as far as he could – he felt that familiar signature flare one last time, and then die, leaving only emptiness and darkness where his little brother’s light had been. He memorized the other five signatures – _five_ , all of them fully grown adults, to kill one child! – despite himself. And then he dropped down from the trees to the clearing where Itama’s broken body lay, and cradled him to his chest as he finally, for the first time in years, cried.)

Tobirama had turned nine with two younger brothers ahead of him in the line of succession.

He turned ten with no more brother’s left – and the Senju no choice but to name Tobirama as the new clan heir.

* * *

Tobirama knew that they didn’t want to, didn’t want _him_ – but he’d looked at the scarred, weathered, distrusting faces and known that these were his people, and he had to do his best to protect them. So he had.

As just a member of the main family, and a distrusted and despised one at that, Tobirama had avoided the majority of his clan, spending his time either training, taking care of Kawarama and Itama, performing missions, or using his rare spare time to read.

When he became the clan spare, and then the clan heir, Tobirama knew he couldn’t keep doing that. He had to get to know these people if he was to lead them one day, so he’d sent his books and scrolls a longing look, and set about doing his best to learn more about the people of his clan.

He followed them, asked questions, watched as they went about their duties – and not just the warriors, either, though of course he followed them to, watching as they went to train on the training grounds, sparred with each other, drank and talked and laughed with each other, discussed things with his father and the council of elders and his father’s second in command. He watched and he learned, what they enjoyed, what they didn’t enjoy, what sort of missions each one was best suited for, what talents each had set to mastering – the Senju, after all, didn’t not have a specific focus, like most other clans, even with their blood limit. They had a variety of specialties, and most Senju were masters of their chosen fields, whether that be trap making or poisons or genjutsu or a certain weapon or ninjutsu type.

Tobirama made note, and also noted how each warrior would train their children in their own specialties – even when it seemed clear to him that the child was better suited to something else.

(Like Itama, forced onto the field because he was father’s son when he would have been an excellent healer. Like Kawarama, forced to the front lines when his mastery and predilection for traps would have made him perfect for the homeguard, the ones who patrolled and guarded the Senju land and compound.)

He followed and took notes – and then he went home and made plans. Drew up lists and ideas and possible training schedules. He started slow, and small – as the new heir he would sit in with his father when he was organizing missions, and whenever his father would make a decision to send the wrong ninja Tobirama would pipe up on why it was a bad idea, and give another option. After a short while of this his father simply passed that task onto Tobirama, which lead to Tobirama taking some of the best spies and infiltrators in the clan and assigning them a mission to check out all the requests they got and make sure to get all the details that the client either hadn’t thought important or had deliberelty hidden. Then he took some of the more paperwork oriented shinobi, and had them form a new group of Mission Ninja, where they would take the information the spies gave them, and the information Tobirama gave them about the skills of the various members, and create teams that best suited each mission.

He changed the way missions were organized, invented a ranking system for both the missions themselves and the shinobi of the clan – and then, when he turned twelve, he brought his plans to his father of an academy.

“You’ve been working on this for a while,” Butsuma said, leafing through the papers Tobirama had sketched out his plans on. Tobirama stood before the desk his father was sitting at, back straight and hands behind his back and gaze fixed above his father’s head, heart pounding.

“Yes,” he confirmed. His father said nothing for a few more long minutes, reading through each page in detail, and Tobirama told himself to stop sweating. He was a shinobi. He should be better than this.

Eventually, Butsuma put the papers down and sat back in his chair with a sigh, making Tobirama’s heart drop.

“It’s a good idea,” Butsuma said. “The arguments you’ve given for why we should standardize training for the children and the issues they’ve been having with the way things are now are pertinent –”

Itama and Kawarama hung between them, their presences and their deaths unmentioned but clearly felt

“- and I truly believe this academy you’ve thought up will help strengthen our forces in the future – but that’s the problem.”

Tobirama didn’t flinch. It wasn’t a no. He could work with this. Solving problems was what he _did._

“How is it a problem?”

Butsuma sighed, one hand coming up to rub his eyes, and Tobirama was surprised to realise how tried and strained and, well, _old_ , he looked. It was disquieting. To him, Butsuma had always been the indomitable figure of his earliest memories, straight backed and stern and powerful and commanding. Seeing him now, Tobirama noticed the additional lines around his eyes and mouth, the grey streaks in his choppy brown hair.

Tobirama had lost two little brothers, and an older brother, yes…but he remembered now that despite his stone face at their funerals, Butsuma had also lost three children.

“The problem,” Butsuma said, “is the time – I am aware that sending out children as young as we do is often what leads to their deaths, but if I take them all from their missions to be trained, along with the younger generations, the time it would take – I would need to move more older, stronger warriors to those missions, which would lead gaps in our front line with the Uchiha. They already outnumber us 2 or 3 to 1, if I pull men back they will break through – and then they will have access to our lands, our vassals and civilian farms, and eventually our compound. And then the children will die _anyway –_ or worse.”

Tobirama knew the numbers, had seen the various reports, and understood what his father was saying – but at the same time “we can’t keep going as we are though,” he said quietly. “We don’t have the numbers to keep losing children – ever Senju who dies as a child is a Senju that doesn’t grow up to have more Senju. If we keep going we’re going to die out, or just end up with not enough people to fight off the Uchiha anyway.”

“I know,” Butsuma sighed, meeting his eyes with his own tired ones, and Tobirama felt a thrill of fear run down his back like a trickle of cold water. His throat felt dry. “We…can’t win this war, can we?” He asked tentatively, desperately hoping that he was wrong – but his father just nodded at him silently, and Tobirama stood there, mind blank for once.

“Can we – can we surrender?” It was almost treason to ask, but treason was better than extinction – Tobirama’s heart fell down to the depths of his stomach as Butsuma shook his head.

“Not to Tajima,” he said. “He wouldn’t accept it – and even if he did he’d do the same thing as he would if we lost. Kill all the warriors and sell the remnants into slavery to die quickly and make him some money as they do so, bar possibly a few he’d keep as rewards for his men – and himself.” Butsuma growled the last few words, eyes suddenly distant as his lips rose in an instinctual snarl, and Tobirama suddenly thought that he knew which Senju would be kept as a war prize for Tajima’s use if the Uchiha clan head had any say about it. Butsuma obviously knew too, and just as obviously would rather die.

Tobirama stayed silent, mind racing. The problem was numbers – if they wanted to live they needed more numbers but to survive and make those numbers the children had to be sacrificed and if the children were sacrificed there was no one to have more children…numbers.

Tobirama looked his father in the eyes. “I have a jutsu I’ve been working on.”

Butsuma looked intrigued, having already experienced some of Tobirama’s newly invented jutsu.

“It’s a variation of the clone jutsu,” Tobirama continued, voice and face getting more animated as he talked about his invention, “but rather then make a weaker copy of yourself that needs to be directed and also stay close like most other clone jutsu’s, it’s a fully functional copy of yourself – the problems so far are the chakra cost and that it’s fragile. One blow and it disperses, though I’ve been able to make it that the chakra making up the clone then returns and as it’s spiritual energy joins with yours you get it’s memories.”

Butsuma raised his eyebrows, openly impressed, and Tobirama felt his face getting hot with pleased embarrassment that he did his best to ignore as he continued. “If I added some sort of stabilizing element – a seal maybe, I’m pretty sure I can alter a blood matrix seal to make it force the clone into proper solidity – and make it so that it didn’t cost so much chakra, or maybe add an element of chakra storage? If we store chakra beforehand and use _that_ to power the clone…” he mused, mind suddenly racing on ways to solve that problem, before forcefully pulling himself back to the present, “anyway, I’m certain that if I work on it, I can make it so that I can have several self-sustaining, intelligent clones – and that means I can essentially be in several places at once, and lighten the load of the missions the children of the clan are currently taking. If I can manage that –”

“If you manage that,” Butsuma interrupted, “You may have your academy.”

Tobirama beamed at him, and turned and practically ran out of the room, mind already filled with formulas, and only remembered that he should have bowed and asked permission to leave several hours later.

* * *

Tobirama had found that when he truly focused and put all his will and energy and mind behind a goal, he usually managed it, so he wasn’t really surprised when he was able to create what he called blood clones, shadow clones with a seal written in blood on each of them, that would, instead of dispersing at a blow, only disperse if they ran out of chakra.

Which meant that soon enough he and his clones were taking even more missions then he had been before – and so it wasn’t a surprise that he eventually ran into his counterpart in the Uchiha clan, the Clan Heir Uchiha Madara.

Tobirama had heard of Uchiha Madara before he met him. The Clan Heir of the Uchiha, the boy who could kill adults, the bloodthirsty monster who bathed in the blood of his enemies, the terrifying shinobi who was only just coming into his power and would grow more terrifying in time. He’d taken note of the rumours, but determined not to believe them until he saw Madara for himself.

He, of all people, knew that rumours were not a good judge of the truth, though he’d made sure to memorise them nonetheless, just in case.

After all, with him now taking so many missions, more and more as he perfected his cloning jutsu and his seals and finished the chakra storage seal so the clones could last longer and so he could make even more, it was inevitable that he’d run into him at some point.

The only surprise came when it was on a mission that he met him, instead of on the battlefield – and when he recognized his face.

With his chakra tucked down deep inside him, Tobirama hid in the rafters of the large house and focused his eyes down on what he had come for – a necklace, extravagant and made of finely cut, large diamonds, that glittered in the dim light. The necklace belonged to the Daimyo’s wife, and when it had been stolen she had hired the Senju clan to get it back, before a party the Daimyo was holding where he had requested she wear it. The Daimyo’s wife was, it seemed, suspected of infidelity, and if she did not wear the necklace it would be assumed that she had given it to her lover, and she would be killed, the woman had confessed to him quietly when he went to meet her. Which probably explained why the Uchiha were here guarding it – they had undoubtedly been the ones hired to steal it in the first place, and to make sure it stayed missing until the Daimyo’s wife was dead.

Politics. It made Tobirama wrinkle his nose in disgust, even as he retreated even further into the shadows as the two Uchiha warriors below scanned their surroundings with their sharingan activated, listening in to their casual talk.

He didn’t learn much, as the two were too experienced to talk about anything important on guard duty, but he did hear them referring to the one who was leading this mission as ‘Madara-sama.’

Uchiha Madara.

Tobirama frowned, and went through what he knew of the older boy, which was annoyingly little.

Well, hopefully he’d be able to just take out these two Uchiha, get the necklace and get out before he ran into Madara.

With a whisper of chakra, Tobirama made another clone, a shadow clone this time, that would pop in a hit, and sent it off to distract one of the Uchiha. It was a long moment of waiting in the rafter for the clone to work, and Tobirama carefuly clenched his muscles one after the other so they wouldn’t fall asleep, waiting and watching, until there was a sound and a flare of chakra as the clone apparently got caught by one of the traps the Uchiha had set. The two below him conferred for a moment, and then one of them sent the other to go investigate. Perfect.

Tobirama waited for a bit longer, tracking the Uchiha’s chakra signature until he was sure he was far enough away – and then dropped down behind the remaining one, fastening and arm over his neck in a blood choke as the Uchiha struggled for a moment and then stilled. He would wake again soon, but by that time he would already be bound in his own wire and unable to make handseals or call for help.

Tobirama smiled, and grabbed the necklace, and headed out the window onto the tiled roof.

The house – palace, really – was large, but Tobirama was fast, and was almost at the wall that surrounded it when he felt the bright burning chakra signature come out of _nowhere_ and he barely had time to turn and draw his sword as another sword – no a kama, a sickle scythe, attached by a chain to a large battle fan that was currently on his opponents back – slammed against it with a shower of sparks.

Tobirama looked at his opponent’s face, instinctively avoiding those dangerous red eyes, and couldn’t help but let his shock show as he registered the familiar signature and recognized the face.

It was the boy from the river.

Which meant he was –

“Uchiha Madara, right?” Tobirama grunted, pressing against the kama with all his strength and seeing the wild grin stretching the boy’s – no, _Madara’s_ – lips as the older boy met his force and matched it effortlessly, slowly pressing the locked blades closer to Tobirama, Tobirama disengaged and jumped back, mind already working. Madara was stronger than him, that much had been clear from the brief clash, but he was older and had longer arms and broader shoulders and better reach, so that wasn’t unexpected. Tobirama, young and slight as he was, was used to being physically weaker than his opponents. It was why he relied so much on stealth and speed – and smarts.

He stood there, night breeze blowing around him and sword as the ready, waiting for Madara to attack, but he did nothing of the sort, instead straightening and turning to face him with a cocked head and that grin still on his mouth. “You know my name,” Madara said, sounding pleased. “But I don’t know yours, little kitsune.”

Tobirama couldn’t help but blink at that. Kitsune? What? His face was slim and high cheek boned, and his features narrow, so he was often called fox-faced, both as a compliment and an insult, but he’d never been called a kitsune before.

Madara apparently could see his confusion. “It was either kitsune or moon rabbit,” he explained, arm that was holding his weapon swinging loosely at his side as he paced back and forth along the wall that Tobirama needed to get over and past to get out of here.

“What?” Tobirama asked.

“Well you could also have been some sort of water kami,” Madara continued, as if he was making any sense, “but those are usually dragons according to the myths, and dragons don’t usually play tricks, and neither do moon rabbits or tennyo - kitsune do though.”

What?

“You thought I was some sort of mythical creature – because I threw a rock at your head?” Tobirama asked in bafflement, eyes darting around as he tried to edge to the side.

Madara nodded calmly as he followed, blocking Tobirama’s path. “Well what was I supposed to think, little kitsune? That a ninja had managed to sneak up on me and just played a prank instead of trying to kill me? Except it seems you are a ninja – which clan? No, I know,” he continued before Tobirama could interrupt. “To be hired against us – you must be a Senju.”

Tobirama tensed. He’d abandoned his typical Senju style armour and netting and Happuri marked with a Senju mon (that Kawarama had given him as a birthday gift before – before.) just to avoid this. “What makes you think someone hired me?”

Madara just smiled at him, still standing casually instead of in a defensive position like Tobirama, as Tobirama frantically tried to find a way out.

“I’m not an idiot, kitsune,” Madara said, and took a step closer – and Tobirama threw caution to the wind, forming the handseals as fast as he could and _pulling_ the water he needed from the air as sent his chakra into it and turned it into a blinding mist.

“Suiton: Kirigakure no jutsu,” he whispered.

Keeping track of where Madara was now lunging forward to where he had been standing in an attempt to catch him, he slipped around the now blinded Uchiha and sprinted as fast as he could over the wall and into the sheltering forest, not letting off speed or cancelling the jutsu despite the additional strain of keeping it up until he was far enough away that he could barely feel Madara’s fiery chakra signature, flaring as it was.

Tobirama sighed in relief, and headed home, wondering idly why it was that Madara’s chakra signature, despite the expected frustration and chagrin of having his prey get away, also seemed to be filled with _happiness_.

* * *

That first official encounter, though Tobirama hadn’t known it at the time, set the tone for their future ones.

Soon, Tobirama was strong enough to be moved from just taking missions (though several of his clones still did so, as the clan’s children started learning in a group from several volunteers, both the basics, and, with specialists occasionally coming in and demonstrating their skills, also with those so that every Senju would have the basics of every skill, and those who were obviously better or more interested in a certain skill or way of fighting would be taught more of that) onto the battlefield.

The land between the Senju and the Uchiha’s lands had the name ‘no man’s land’, and it was, after years of the two clans fighting there, more a battlefield then a place to live. Sometimes, the Senju would gain an advantage and advance, sometimes the Uchiha – the lines were always fluctuating. Tobirama had studied various maps made of their lands over the years and how the border line between them was constantly shifting, and cursed once again that his clan didn’t seem to see that they were fighting a losing battle – not in terms of force or strength, now that Tobirama was seeing issues (like the speed or safety of messenger birds ) and coming up with ways to help (like inventing a modified, linked storage seal that allowed inanimate objects to be transported between them), but in terms of the fact that they had lost by fighting in the first place.

Half their forces were constantly bound up in fighting the Uchiha’s and their advance, or attempting to advance themselves, instead of taking missions. Which meant their income flow was lower than it could have been, and so they were forced to take more dangerous but higher paying missions – such as the ones where they were opposing the Uchiha clan. Which lead to more fighting. Which lead to both sides hating each other more, and refusing to pull forces from their defensive line, and it just went round and round in circles.

Nobody even knew what they had started fighting _about_. It was probably something stupid, Tobirama thought to himself as he stretched his senses as far as they could go.

He had his eyes shut to block out that sense as he focused on chakra instead, tracking the shifting flames of the Uchiha, from their own defensive line on the other side of ‘no man’s land’, to the various safehouses and storehouses dotted around their lands, all the way back to their compound. He’d already told the general he was working under all the locations he could sense and the movements of the various Uchiha, so soon hopefully he’d be released from his duties as sensor, and could go back to working on the jutsu he was working on.

Ever since that first battle, Madara had apparently decided to make Tobirama his rival. Considering Tobirama was one of the few Senju who could keep up with him, and therefore stop him from killing his clan members, Tobirama had accepted it and set about doing his best to kill the other clan heir as they both grew older and broader and stronger – and taller. At 18, now, Tobirama was taller than Madara, if only a little, and it gave him a pleasure that wasn’t entirely because it gave him the advantage of reach and height over the other man. Madara was solid, all heavy muscle where Tobirama was slender and leaner. Tobirama was faster but Madara was stronger and had better endurance and truly ridiculous amounts of chakra…and no matter what he did, Tobirama couldn’t beat him.

When he had first taken to the battlefield he had thought he would be able to. As time had passed and Madara had gotten stronger, more and more Senju had died, until eventually Tobirama couldn’t take it anymore.

He knew he wasn’t as strong as Madara, or even as strong as the grown Senju shinobi he had killed – but he guessed he was smarter.

(This wasn’t an arrogant guess – in his experience, Tobirama was smarter than everyone he’d ever met.)

He had been young to go on the battlefield, and his father had protested as he was his last heir, but Tobirama had been able to argue him into it.

He had hoped he’d be able to invent something that would kill the Uchiha’s clan heir and save his people, and instead he had found himself faced with attempting to move an unmoveable object.

Madara would send a wall of flames at the Senju and Tobirama would counter with a wall of water, Madara would use his gunbai to block an attack and Tobirama invented his sword of the thunder god. Madara grew his sharingan and Tobirama invented a genjutsu to shroud them in darkness, and it went on. Invention after invention, jutsu after jutsu, hours of training with sword and kunai and shuriken and naginata until his breath rasped in his chest and his hands bled. Tobirama trained until he collapsed then got up and trained more, learned from the various experts in the clan, took the skills they taught him and made them his own, studied strategies and battle histories deep into the night until his already poor vision gave out – and none of it was enough.

Not against Madara.

Again and again he crafted strategies to make sure as many of his clanmates came home as was possible, again and again he threw himself into battle before them to protect them, and it wasn’t enough – but they noticed.

It was slow, their acceptance, and at first Tobirama hadn’t realized. Each friendly shoulder clasp or smile or quiet thanks when he blocked a killing blow a shock and a gift that he quietly stored inside himself and fed to the small child crying inside that didn’t understand why he was so unloved and distrusted. But the gifts kept coming, and slowly Tobirama realized – they were acceptance.

It warmed him, and he doubled his efforts.

His cousin, Touka, could take Uchiha Izuna, Madara’s little brother and Tobirama had changed the training enough that a group of Senju could usually fight a group of Uchiha, but Madara was still there, still a threat, still slaughtering his clan members with ease, and it was left to Tobirama to face Madara and he _wasn’t enough_. He could withstand him, trick him, survive him and stop him from decimating his clan – but not beat him.

It burned.

“You can stop now,” said Senju Maruma, the man who lead the outpost Tobirama was in, voice gruff. Tobirama slowly drew his senses back in, towards himself, settling back into his skin and breathing until he felt a little less like he was going to burst out of the edges of it. After a moment, he opened his eyes, blinking as they watered in the dim light of the tent.

Maruma slapped a hand on Tobirama’s shoulder, making him sway a little.

“You did good sapling,” Maruma said. Tobirama turned towards him, still feeling a bit shaky, and taking strength from the presence of the older man and grounding in the feel of his hand on his shoulder, a little weight stopping Tobirama’s soul from lifting out of his body. Tobirama sent a surge of chakra through his muscles to help ground himself as he stood, nodding to his superior.

Maruma was older even then Tobirama’s father, in a world where thirty was considered old age for a shinobi, and while he was weathered and scarred he was also experienced and respected. He’d not liked Tobirama at first, eyeing his red eyes suspiciously, but after Tobirama had been able to create a replacement limb for his leg and stopped him from having to retire from the front lines and become one of the dependents that remained in the compound – a fate that front liners often considered worse then death, and usually killed themselves to avoid.

Tobirama had also invented a prosthetic arm, but it wasn’t quite as good as a natural arm, though he was still improving it with the help of several injured former front-liners and one older woman who had been born with only one arm.

While work was slow, knowing that they would eventually be able to return to the front lines and keep supporting the clan kept them from killing themselves, and Tobirama was always greeted by a group of ex-frontliners when he made his way home, telling him how the arms had been working and any issues they had, whether with dexterity or strength or control. Personally, Tobirama thought that those who stayed in the compound, the sick and weak and old and young and civilians, also supported the clan, as they were the ones who farmed the land and hunted and gathered in the forests and cooked the meals and made the armour and clothes that the warriors of the clan bent and broke and bled on. He’d set out, at the beginning, to make life easier for them, inventing seals to help with laundry and weaving and planting and metalworking, and had found that over the years the civilians of the clan had become some of his strongest supporters. He’d done his best to use that for the betterment of the clan, often asking those injured and newly disabled front liners to help out with the civilians while he worked on their prosthesis’s and to tell him how they worked when subjected to work, and had noticed that as time went by the front liners were less scornful of the civilians, and instead spoke in praise of how hard they worked and all they did for the clan. When he’d seen Maruma himself attempting to sew up a gash in his shirt so as to ‘not bother some poor seamstress with enough on her hands’ he’d smiled, happy that it had worked. After all, civilian or warrior, they were all Senju, and he didn’t want any part of his clan looking down on any other part. It also meant that the warriors fought harder, knowing that a successful mission could be the difference between their civilian friends starving or surviving a harsh winter, and that they fought even harder to protect their compound, knowing the fate that would await those who stayed there should the Uchiha manage to defeat them.

Death, capture, rape, slavery – the fate of those who lost their wars in this era of warring clans was dim indeed.

Tobirama wouldn’t let that happen to his people.

“Go get some rest,” Maruma said, and Tobirama bowed and left the tent – but when he got to his (he had his own private tent, a benefit both of his position as Clan Heir and also the fact that he needed the space for his makeshift lab) instead of unfolding his futon and lying down, Tobirama rolled open a scroll and sat down and started working.

He’d already devised several different evacuation plans, should they start really losing, that would send their weaker members, starting with the children, to their cousins the Uzumaki, and had been corresponding with the Uzumaki clan heiress, Mito, about methods of assimilating them into the Uzumaki’s island home – and additional seals that could protect them. He had plans for a large barrier that would form a bubble around a certain area, a shield of sorts, and was working on making it both that it wouldn’t let in enemies (intent based seals weren’t the most _discerning_ of wards, as everyone felt anger and irritation, and if someone felt it at the wrong time…well, Tobirama was working on it) and would _repel_ enemies who attacked it.

Violently.

_Lethally._

It wasn’t actually needed to get the Uzumaki to take in those of the Senju who would seek refuge with them – Tobirama was the strongest Suiton user ever seen, able to tame the storm and stop whirlpools, typhoons, and even the tsunami, the wave of the gods – something no other suiton user had ever been able to do.

For the Uzumaki, who lived on an island surrounded by whirlpools, Tobirama and his abilities in the height of typhoon season had saved them many times. If he asked them to take in those of the Senju who couldn’t fight, they would do so without hesitation. But nonetheless, Tobirama wanted to help make sure they would all be protected, if the worst came to pass.

And the worst _would_ come to pass if things kept going as they were. His father was getting older, and so was Uchiha Tajima – soon, Tobirama knew, Butsuma would do what he could for his clan by taking the other clan head out even if it killed him, which it undoubtedly would. Tobirama ignored the small pang in his chest at the thought. His father was a shinobi. To mourn him would be insulting, especially before he was even dead. After, Tobirama would be clan head, and would be able to institute more of the changes he had come up with to streamline things and make them more efficient, like providing jobs for those disabled or widowed to help them support themselves and their children, adding some aspects of those same children’s training that he hadn’t been able to before…

And none of that would mean anything if the Uchiha, lead by Madara as their new clan head, simply swept over the Senju as they were starting to do, so Tobirama settled down with his scroll, ignoring the call of his futon behind him, and kept working on his new jutsu.

This one was a space time jutsu designed to get around the Uchiha’s sharingan.

Tobirama was calling it ‘Hirashin’.

* * *

Madara blew a fireball at him and Tobirama ducked back, using a single handseal to summon a water dragon out of thin air and send it clashing against the chakra heavy fire, causing both jutsu to explode in a cloud of steam.

Perfect.

Tobirama pulled out a brace of kunai out and spread them between his fingers, heart pounding in excitement. He could sense where Madara was in the steam, but even if he couldn’t he’d be able to find him because the man was seemingly incapable of not talking.

“Amazing, kitsune!” Madara laughed through the steam. “As expected of you – here, let me show you something new!”

Tobirama, hearing that, narrowed his eyes and threw the kunai – all of which had a specific, new seal wrapped around their handles. He wanted to stop his rival before he could do whatever new trick he wanted to show, so as Madara tilted his head to the side to dodge the kunai, Tobirama activated his new jutsu.

_Hiraishingiri!_

Tobirama _stepped_ and was suddenly where the kunai had been, sword swinging right for Madara’s neck, and he felt a surge of victory that almost made him smile – before his sword was stopped by a barrier. A glowing, slightly see through purple barrier surrounded Madara now, and it shifted and hardened until it was no longer just a glow but a skeletal form surrounding the man. Tobirama’s sword and been blocked by one of the ribs.

Tobirama grit his teeth and sprang backwards as Madara threw back his head and laughed.

“Do you like it kitsune!?” Madara cried out, hair flaring around him from the force of his chakra as the steam from their jutsu fully dissipated and let the rest of the battlefield see them. “This – this is the power of the Uchiha. Of the Sharingan!” Madara stopped laughing and looked at Tobirama, still smiling like a madman. “That jutsu is amazing – if I were anyone else I’d be dead!” His tone was oddly cheerful, despite his words, and he sounded _admiring,_ which just added insult to injury.

Tobirama readied his sword, hands gripping the hilt with frustration. He’d been so _close!_ And now that Madara had seen the Hiraishin he wouldn’t let the seals close to him again – none of Tobirama’s new jutsu ever worked more then once, if they worked at all.

He hadn’t even been able to _scratch_ him.

“Amazing,” Madara said again, voice warm and sincere as if he was talking to a friend and not an enemy. “You are truly amazing, moon rabbit. You’re the only one who’s ever able to give me a good fight.”

Tobirama snorted and looked away – at where his father was fighting Uchiha Tajima.

Just in time for him to see Butsuma throw himself on Tajima’s katana in order to use the brief moment of surprise to cut the other clan leaders throat.

Tobirama was a shinobi. A single stray emotion in the battlefield and you were dead.

But nonetheless, he made an aborted movement towards his dying father, and that drew Madara’s eyes away from him, widening as they saw what Tobirama had. 

“Father!” Madara cried, and sprang towards them, while Tobirama did the same, grabbing Butsuma and pulling him from Tajima’s sword while desperately pressing a green glowing hand to the wound in his chest, knowing even as he did so that he was too late.

(Hashirama had been a prodigy in the healing arts even at how young he was, and Itama had been even better. If it was one of them – don’t think about it.)

Tobirama stood, his father in his arms, and looked around the battlefield.

They hadn’t lost today – but they hadn’t won either.

“Retreat!” he called out, taking on the clan head’s duty for the first time, and the Senju obeyed.

(Later, in the healing halls he’d frantically carried Butsuma to, he sat by his father’s death bed and cradled him in his arms. Butsuma held up a shaking hand and stroked Tobirama’s pale cheek.

“Love –” he managed to choke out, before his eyes dimmed and his hand fell.

Tobirama bent his head over his father’s corpse.

It was the first time he’d ever said he loved him.)

* * *

Tobirama was never the one who was meant to be clan head, but he did his best. The Senju, his clan – they were scarred and weary and worn by this everlasting war, and they were _his_ , his people, to protect and shelter and guide and lead from the front. He loved them, all of them, from the meanest, lowliest civilian washwoman to the generals who had been his fathers right and left hands. And he wanted to help them, whether that was inventions to help with the tasks of the civilians and free up their time (he’d been horrified when he discovered exactly how long it took to make the yarn that was woven into the cloth that the rest of the Senju wore, and the silk that they sold, and invented a type of spinning wheel, to help the women wind the yarn quicker and easier and make more of it, which had more then doubled their output. It had been enough that they’d been able to assuage some of the loss of income from missions where the Uchiha were getting more and more and the Senju were getting less and less, and had kept them going through the harsh winter – but Tobirama was a genius, and he’d looked at the numbers, the income and outcome, and known that they were hanging on a thread) or making jutsu for the various shinobi that went well with their specialities. He’d made Touka a Naginata dotted with seals, to make it sharper and hardier and able to extend and move like a whip, and the shock of it had almost gotten Uchiha Izuna, though he’d managed to avoid taking a fatal or even crippling blow, unfortunately.

He’d also made himself a sword made of lightning, to both help with his Raiton and also hopefully give him an advantage against Madara – but all the man had done was _grin_ when he’d seen Tobirama’s new Sword of the Thunder God (yes it was a bit pretentious but it was Tobirama’s sword he could name it what he wanted!), the battle-maniac seeming genuinely _happy_ at every near miss when the lightning blade had extended or turned into a whip or shot a powerful lightning jutsu at him, shouting compliments as he fought and laughing and honestly seeming to enjoy himself as Tobirama had grit his teeth and done his best to kill him – and failed, as always.

And as always, they had lost more territory. More and more, until the defensive line was barely beyond the compound limits and even the most war hungry members of the Senju couldn’t protest as Tobirama started evacuating the rest of the clan. The children first, then the civilians, then the sick and disabled who could no longer fight – and hadn’t _that_ lead to several rows, those who could no longer fight wanting to stay and fight anyway, arguing that they could sacrifice their lives to help those who still could – Tobirama had snapped and screamed at them, losing his temper for the first time in…a long time. Shouting that they were no less worthy of living then anyone else simply because they couldn’t fight, because they weren’t ‘whole’ – reminding them of their friends and families and loved ones who would mourn them if they died a pointless death in a war they were losing, shouting that they were his clan and he loved them and he wanted them _safe_ – he’d broken down into gasping, sobbing tears, unable to keep talking, unable to say the words that would make them understand, cursing his inability with words as he always did – and he’d felt arms wrap around him, blind Tenma and one-handed Takuma and old Mika whose chakra system had been damaged years ago. They’d knelt around him on the tatami mats that made up what he still thought of as his father’s office, and held him, and soothed him as he cried – and then they had agreed to go to Uzushio, promising that they would protect those civilian members of the Senju who could not defend themselves there. It had been years since he had felt so loved, or cared for, or safe.

Tobirama held that memory in his heart as he tried to figure out some way of stopping the Uchiha from conquering them, of defeating the undefeatable, and ran, again and again, into the immovable barrier that was Uchiha Madara.

Even now, as his sword clashed with the man’s Gunbai and shed sparks around them, Madara stood strong, blocking a brace of seal-less water senbon Tobirama took the opportunity to spit at his face with his damnable Susann-o and pushing Tobirama back.

“Hello kitsune,” Madara purred, greeting Tobirama as he always did. Tobirama grit his teeth and focused on keeping his eyes off those dangerous sharingan eyes while fighting, years of experience letting him ignore the itching feeling at the back of his neck that came from Madara staring at him.

He was _always_ staring. And as usual, Tobirama said nothing in return, instead disengaging and sending a stream of water bullets from various hidden clones that he’d sent out around them under the guise of sparks. If he wouldn’t call Tobirama by his name, instead of some ridiculous insult like ‘kitsune’ or ‘moon rabbit’ or ‘tennyo’, then Tobirama wouldn’t call him anything.

Madara laughed in honest delight as the clones removed their disguise and dodged the water bullets, as well as the kunai and shuriken Tobirama mentally directed the clones to send to try and hem him in.

“Tricky as always, kitsune!” Madara congratulated as he blew a wave of fire at the clones, hot enough to make them disperse as they died. Tobirama carefully didn’t wince as he filed away the multiple memories of being burned alive and instead reused the water from the bullets to make a large water dragon. When facing Madara, it was best to be careful with his chakra levels.

Madara blocked the dragon with his gunbai, and Tobirama narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t attacking back. Sure, he’d attacked the clones, but he wasn’t attacking _Tobirama_ back – which mean the was planning something.

Madara looked past the dragon at Tobirama and grinned again at him. There was something different about this grin though.

Something… _triumphant_.

Tobirama got a sinking feeling in his stomach as he tensed.

“But your clan isn’t doing as well as you are!” Madara called, nodding behind and to the side of Tobirama where he could sense his clan members clashing with the smoke and embers and sparks of the Uchiha clan, and Tobirama, still keeping one eye on Madara in case this was a trap, carefully turned and looked.

Tobirama had learned, over the years, not to focus on his clan mates chakra while fighting, to ignore the flicker and fade of familiar signatures and the whole they left in the fabric of the world and in his heart – but now, as he looked at the battlefield, his eyes widened.

They were alive, as he’d felt – but they were, almost to a man, defeated.

He’d known they were outnumbered, but seeing the two or three Uchiha to each Senju – no wonder they’d all been taken down without being killed. It’s a lot easier to fight without intent to kill when you’re not struggling to survive, after all. Tobirama’s red eyes darted over his people, Maruma with two swords to his neck, Takuma with his hands bound behind him – even his cousin and heir, Touka, was disarmed and being forced to kneel, with Uchiha Hikaku behind her and Uchiha Izuna before her, raising her chin with the point of his sword with a smile on his face like the cat that got the canary – or an Uchiha who just beat his long term opponent. Triumphant and wild and preening in victory as he smiled down at Tobirama’s cousin.

Tobirama made a briefly aborted move towards them before he can stop himself. That was _Touka_ , his big cousin, his _family_ –

“Do you see?” Madara asked, bringing Tobirama’s full attention back to him. Tobirama was a bit surprised to realise the man was frowning, though it faded almost immediately as Tobirama paid him his full focus again. “Your clan is beaten. I know you’ve probably been evacuating your non fighters – you’re too smart not to –”

Tobirama didn’t acknowledge the small pleased feeling he got from the backhanded praise of his intelligence.

“But you care about the fighters as much as you do about your civilians,” Madara continued, which was…surprising. How did he realise that?

He must have shown some confusion on his face, because Madara frowned at him. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” the man asked, sounding honestly upset. “I’m an Uchiha – you think I don’t _watch_ you?”

There is a difference between looking and understanding, Tobirama thought but said nothing, making Madara’s left eye twitch as he gritted his teeth. “Always so silent,” Madara groused, pacing closer as Tobirama tensed but, with a look at the blades to his clansmen’s throats, didn’t try to defend or attack or gain some distance. “But no matter,” Madara said, brightening as he got closer. “You’ll talk now – I’m going to make you _sing_ for me.”

Madara smiled as he stepped into Tobirama’s personal space, sharingan eyes bright red and spinning as Tobirama took that in.

Torture? Interrogation? There wasn’t anything he thought the Uchiha might ant to know, except possibly the location of the civilian Senju and how to get to them, and Tobirama would die before giving that up and so would all his shinobi…

“I’m going to do everything I’ve been dreaming of for years,” Madara crooned, moving even closer until they were practically sharing the same air, and Tobirama could smell him, the scent of blood and ash and cloves and incense.

“And you’re going to let me, aren’t you?” Madara purred. “Because if you don’t, I’ll kill your clan members, one by one. If you hurt yourself, or kill yourself, I’ll kill them all. If you want them to live – then kneel, Senju Tobirama.”

Tobirama clenched his teeth so tight his jaw ached but sent one last look at his people – his _family –_ and let his sword drop from his fingers.

Tobirama took a deep breath, then knelt, knees thudding onto the churned mud that immediately soaked through his black cotton pants.

Madara made a small sound in his throat at the sight and reached out and tangled a hand in Tobirama’s hair, pulling his head back so his neck was exposed and bent as Madara leaned down and whispered in Tobirama’s ear.

“Caught you, kitsune. I have your cloak now, my tennyo – my moon rabbit. _Mine_.”


End file.
